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Edward swallowed. He wasn't used anymore to speaking her name out loud.

Irina.

His wife.

His wonderful, beautiful wife.

His dead wife.

Dead for five years.

Tomorrow, the day that would have been her thirty-fifth birthday, he'd go to the cemetery and put flowers on her grave.

Tanya and Kate would be there, and they'd go to a terribly expensive place to have lunch, and Irina's sisters would tell him how sorry Sasha and Vasili were that they couldn't come.

Irina's parents had been there for the funeral, and had never come back, too busy making money, or getting botox injections. They had never agreed with her daughter moving to Europe, becoming an artist, marrying another artist instead of a broker from Chicago.

Edward would drink himself into a stupor and wake the next afternoon with a splitting headache.

His pinkie was still touching Bella's.

He looked up, and she was looking at him with a thoughtful expression.

And then, her pinkie circled his. Just one time, and it might have been an accident, but her expression told him that it wasn't.

"You are visiting her grave?"

"Yes."

Bella got up and closed the distance between them. Their fingers never lost contact. She sat next to Edward.

She was so close, pale and thin and utterly beautiful.

Their pinkie fingers still were touching. Bella dropped her hand on her thigh. Between thighs, they were connected.

"When are you meeting her sisters?"

"Eleven," he whispered.

He looked up again.

Bella was clearly overwhelmed, and helpless with his sorry ass around.

"You don't want to meet them, do you?"

"No."

"But you'd feel bad if you skipped?"

"Yes." It was another whisper. Edward sighed.

"Do you have an alternate scenario? What would YOU like to do?"

"To not go there. Or go there alone. I hate… I hate the feeling of obligation. That I need to feel sad, or to cry, on command."

"What would you like to do?" Bella asked. "Instead?"

"Get drunk," he chuckled.

"Um… I think I have some white wine…"

"Bella." He took her hand. "I was joking." He took a deep breath.

Her hand felt spectacular in his own one. Small and warm and soft.

"I'm already drunk. I don't know. I feel good with you. Better that I've ever done in years. You are…"

He sighed deeply.

He closed his eyes.

Sitting here, next to Bella, in her tiny flat, her hand in his, he felt more relaxed than he had in years.

It felt right.

They were silent for a long time, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

Every now and then, Bella's thumb would stroke his fingers. It was a light touch, warm and comforting.

If only they could be like this forever.

He finally opened his eyes. Bella was sitting with one leg tucked underneath her. She was looking at him. Her eyes were so large, holding so much… compassion?

He didn't want her to feel sorry for him. Everyone always felt sorry for him. Pitying him for what had happened, and for not being able to move on, to live again.

Because he'd stopped living five years ago. He was existing, he was functioning. Eating, and sleeping, and working. His art was the only thing that brought some kind of solace. That, and booze.

He wouldn't allow her to pity him.

Of course he was pitiful. Old, and pitiful, and obviously damaged, where she was beautiful and young and pure.

"Thank you," he said, his voice sounding hoarse and thin.

"You're welcome," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "If you want, you could come over tomorrow, after…" She bit her lip, and Edward was sure she was going to take it back.

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A/N:

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